


Leap of Faith

by fallowthought



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 09:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18688531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallowthought/pseuds/fallowthought
Summary: Eliot is kicked out of Brakebills and gets his memory wiped. Quentin sets out to bring a sparkle to his lonesome, joyless life.





	Leap of Faith

Eliot first meets the man on Monday—the most mundane day of the week. Rain fretfully raps on the window, and it is nearing the end of his shift. When Eliot first applied for the job, he clung to the idyllic notion of thrift stores as a haven for wannabe fashionistas. In real life, it’s mostly broke people.

Neither label seems to fit the stranger loitering behind the rack of criminally outdated jackets. _Uncomfortably middle class_ , Eliot checks off mental boxes. _Nerdy. Conventional. Straight as a—_

Eliot meets the stranger’s eyes and amends the last point. Straight guys usually don’t have the courage to give him a once-over.

The discovery still doesn’t make up for the dullness. As a rule, Eliot wishes people like that a swift death under a lawn mower—but the roll of distant thunder is passably romantic, and Eliot hasn’t logged in on Tinder for _weeks_.  

He strikes a suggestive pose against the countertop. The stranger visibly gathers himself before marching right up to the register.

“I’m Quentin,” he says, displaying a depth of originality off the bat.

The next couple of minutes don’t pass noticeably better.

“So— You work here?” Quentin asks, seemingly casting about for a topic.

Eliot doesn’t bulge. “I do.” The things he does to get laid.

“Why?” At that, Quentin visibly cringes.

Eliot presses a hand to his chest. “It’s been my heart’s desire to become a cashier ever since I moved to the city.”

“Really?”

“No, but it might as well be, seeing how I insisted on getting a liberal arts degree.”

The stranger’s face falls. He pulls his coat tight around him, openly crestfallen. It’s so demeaning that Eliot forgets to take note of the brand.   

Thunder blares outside, and all the store lamps flicker. Quentin catches the look of his wristwatch; he blanches. “I need to go. You’ll— still be there?”

_Rub it in, why don’t you?_

“Don’t let my Wondrous Parlor of Curiosities detain you.” Eliot’s acerbic tone makes Quentin take a step back.

It’s like he expected Eliot to be _happy_ to see him. The nerve of him.

“Shouldn’t have done this sober,” Quentin mutters, pushing at the door. A barrage of rain crashes over the doorstep—then he’s gone.

“A sound advice for any situation,” Eliot tells the cash register. He highly doubts Quentin will return.

The guy didn’t even carry an umbrella, but turned up perfectly dry.

 

*

 

The next week of Eliot’s life is chock-full with romantic bliss—namely dear Quentin, who now stalks him on his daily commute. He works up the courage to approach Eliot again on his next bar night, two beer glasses, appropriately sincere smile and all.

“Are you trying to roofy me?” Eliot asks out of sheer boredom, and watches Quentin suffer through several distinctive shades of red. “I know, I know, asking you wouldn’t help,” he concedes, plucking a glass out of Quentin’s hand. In his mind, this is marginally better than, _It’s okay if you are because I really don’t give a fuck, Quentin_.

Quentin plunks down on the opposite seat, his legs tucked under the bench. His drink ends up sidelined—he digs in his pocket and pulls out a shining flask instead. It’s against the bar rules. It’s the first notable thing about him.

“Didn’t take you for the classy flask type,” Eliot notes, curious despite himself. His lungs itch for a smoke, but he’s got a _mystery_ now—a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit in with Q’s carefully ironed shirt.

Quentin gives him a crooked smile. “It’s not mine. I had a classy boyfriend, once.”

“Not anymore?”

Quentin’s eyebrow flies up—the sudden expression of confidence takes Eliot aback. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he says, leaning forward.

The space under Eliot’s throat lurches pleasantly.

“You certainly are,” he says, reaching out to smooth down Quentin’s tie.

 

*

 

Eliot means it to be a one-off-event. Boyfriends are more trouble than they are worth, expecting Eliot to keep up with their life, and show up for dates on time, and quit drinking before afternoon, and dear me, Eliot, is it _cocaine_ inside your ring? Who even does cocaine anymore?

Quentin can’t find a single fault with him. If he could, he would certainly consider it impolite to mention. That’s a shame—Eliot often itches to pick a fight, and Quentin has a metaphorical target painted on his back.  

For starters, no one would call Q a social butterfly. He seems content to bask in the aura of Eliot’s magnetic ways, which is both rational and concerning. It makes Eliot’s head hurt; he has such strange dreams now, when he nods off at the store. The strangest.

Then there’s Quentin’s obscure line of studies. As far as Eliot knows, his skills boil down to lame coin tricks and mixing margaritas. Neither seems advantageous to academic success. Q is tight-lipped; Eliot wordlessly settles on a business degree.

He still carries Fillory books in his bag, for god’s sake. On one occasion, he tries to quiz Eliot on them.

On the other hand, Q knows Eliot’s tastes to the letter. There are no canceled weekend plans, no ambiguities. Eliot’s never been to his place because Q lives in the dorms—if he were, he wouldn’t be tossed out early in the morning, the _clang-clang_ of smashed plates following him outside. Q’s coffee mug fits all too neatly into Eliot’s cupboard. The domesticity of it makes him throw up a little.  

He dreams he’s setting off fireworks at a party, and all the cigarette stubs suddenly turn into birds.

“I have been to a mental hospital,” says Quentin once, his back turned to Eliot as he’s making breakfast.

“I grew up in Indiana,” Eliot replies and that is that.

 

*

 

Penny descends upon them both like a storm of rage, his neckline every bit as intense as its owner.

“Even you’re not allowed to be that dumb,” he snaps at Quentin. “Hold on. On second thoughts—“

“This is a park,” Eliot cuts in, wrapping his tea cake back in the paper, “a place meant for inner peace and tranquility. You should try it sometime.”

Penny’s coat swirls dramatically as he jabs his finger at Eliot’s chest. “ _You_. Your life is a mistake.”

“As compared to a routine of accosting strangers in public places, you mean?”

“No, Penny’s a— friend of mine,” says Quentin, his tone of horror belying his words. “We go to college together.”

“What’s he been telling about me? No, don’t answer that.” Eliot waves a hand at Penny’s dark look. “I get the general idea.”   

“Only good things,” Quentin supplies, in a whisper.

Distaste pulls at Penny’s features for a brief moment. “I didn’t even mean to land here,” he mutters and adds, louder, “You’re playing with fire, Coldwater.”

He swivels on his heel and vanishes into thin air. At some point, these things stopped getting through to Eliot.

“Your friends have some bizarre ideas about wingmanship,” he notes, sitting back on the bench. “No wonder we never got introduced.”

“I’ve never met any of your friends, either,” says Quentin, and instantly snaps his mouth shut.

Eliot’s lack of social ties has been a sore subject between them. Quentin, early on, expected him to lead an _exciting_ life—a carnival life—a life full of exclusive parties and weekends in exotic spots. That was to be expected. Eliot spent a lot of time cultivating a particular image of himself, after all. What came as a surprise was how _let down_ by the truth Q was—the designated phone-scroller in a corner who stays sober until morning.   

“I don’t _have_ any friends,” Eliot hums. “The general populace is scared away by my brilliance.”

He’s not sure how else to break it to Quentin. The truth is, Eliot’s not a pleasant man. Only two people are willing to bear with him on a day-to-day basis. He hasn’t told the other one out of superstitious belief that Quentin might turn into sea foam with the first ray of sunlight and slip through his fingers if he does.

People who go to exclusive parties probably don’t bother with such fancies.

Quentin is the one who does.

 

*

 

“I had a pet parrot when I was in primary school,” says Quentin apropos of nothing as they are lounging together in bed.

“What, did Jane Chatwin have one, too?” Eliot asks, not particularly kindly. He is going through a nasty case of cabin fever, pondering the wisdom of human attachments in general, and the benefits of keeping around Quentin in particular. So far, the benefits extend to keeping the whiskey bottle for himself—Quentin, naturally, sticks to his flask.

“Captain Baylers, actually. He used to be a Cordelier of Jane.”

“Aww. Little Q wanted to be a pirate when he was a kid.”

A corner of Quentin’s mouth quirks up. “No. A wizard.” Sun glints off the surface of his flask, and Eliot can’t help but resent its previous owner. The way his lips brushed the same spot Quentin’s lips now do. All the ways he made Quentin happy.

“Where did I leave my ring?” he asks abruptly, kicking the blanket aside.

Quentin props himself up on his elbows. “I thought you were trying to quit.”

“It doesn’t count if you don’t do it regularly. So I’m going to stick to the odd weeks of the month from now on.”

Quentin simply _looks_ at him, and that look firmly settles in the _cons_ column of his _Keeping Quentin Around_ mental list.

“Or maybe I’m planning to propose,” Eliot amends with a nasty smile.

Quentin doesn’t take the bait. “She wasn’t meant for a cage, you know. My parrot. She was a big, tropical kind, and she only got washier and sadder since we bought her. My parents thought I was imagining it, but I knew.”

Eliot has a talent for spying long-winded metaphors, and he doesn’t like where this is going one bit.  “Is this flask of yours bottomless?” he asks instead. “You’ve been fondling it the whole morning.”

Quentin looks up, startled. “You know me. Can’t hold a drink.”

Eliot hums in agreement, the bottle dangling between his fingers. There’s nothing in his desk drawers, and nothing in the bookcase, too. He couldn’t have used up the whole stash, could he?

“One day, I opened the cage and let her out. I thought she would be happier that way. My parents told me she’d flown back to her family, but the truth is, she probably died. No one was there to take care of her anymore.”

Eliot gives him a side look. “For my manic pixie dream girl, you’re doing a shit job, Quentin,” he proclaims, tipping the bottle back for refuse.

Quentin doesn’t crack even the tiniest self-deprecating smile. “I know,” he says.

A stab of guilt shoots through Eliot, and that only makes him angrier with Quentin.

“You know, I always thought _I_ would be the one to— Never mind.” Quentin looks away and shakily unscrews his flask.

_Well then_ , Eliot thinks, _Why are you sticking around?_

 

*

 

Quentin meets Margo Hanson exactly once, and it doesn’t go over well.

“I should’ve guessed,” she says, “that there was no DnD club.” Her high-heeled shoe taps against the carpet, as if she itches to stab someone with it.

“Pot. Kettle,” Quentin blurts, trying to put his arm through the sleeve and missing. “How’s the Madeira vacation going?”

“Splendidly. Unlike some, I had the sense to choose a _classy_ cover.”

“You two know each other?” Eliot asks, his sulfate free hair conditioner dripping all over the floor. For the first time in his life, everybody in the room ignores him.

“How many people are in on this? Don’t tell me _Todd_ is somewhere in here too.” At Margo’s blank look, Quentin prods further. “Our housemate? Who went to Madeira _with you_?”

Margo frowns slightly. “So I _did_ forget to let him out of the broom closet.” She gives a careless shrug. “He’s probably still there. Look harder.”

“Do it yourself,” Quentin snaps. The effect is somewhat ruined by the half-buttoned shirt. “The Dean’s bound to notice us _both_ rooming up here.”

“Good thinking. I, for one, can’t move out before the end of my lease, so…” Margo makes a small shooing gesture.

Quentin folds his arms. “What happens when you’re not back at Brakebills next year? Do you plan on pretending to be his roommate until one of you dies?”

“What’s a Brakebills?” Eliot finally breaks in. “No, screw that, _pretending_? Did I start a fight club, and you’re both members?”

Margo puts on a saccharine-fake smile. “Shh. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I can’t deal with it.” Quentin’s eyes take on a distant look. “You tell him something, quick.” He draws aside the wallpaper, like a veil, and strides through. The room tilts sideways—as if Eliot’s head hasn’t been hurting _enough_. 

“What was that? _I_ can’t handle it?” Margo addresses the empty space.  

Eliot pointedly clears his throat.

“There’s no fight club.” Margo tucks her arm through his as they settle on a sofa. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in a fight.”

“Fair enough,” Eliot concedes. “I’m a robot, and this is an elaborate attempt to imitate human consciousness?”

Margo studies him for a moment. “You need to stop borrowing Q’s Kindle. Besides, if you were, nobody would tell you.”

“Moving on, then. You’re planning a surprise birthday party?”

“Your birthday is eight months away.”

“I deserve the best.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “We used to go to college together. There goes your mystery. Happy?”

Eliot wordlessly considers the gargantuan holes in that excuse. “Please, tell me you’re not friends with Penny,” he says out loud.

Margo’s brows climb up to her hairline. “ _Penny_ ’s been coming to see you? What did he say?”

“That my life is a mistake.”

“That does sound like him.” Margo sounds nakedly relieved.

“Did you know Q’s ex, too?” Eliot asks with false airiness and watches her go cobra-still. “Don’t be kind,” he adds.

Margo’s expression is all flat lines. “He used to be in Brakebills with us. Then he hurt someone and got expelled. It wasn’t even his fault—he was only protecting the others.” She holds up her hand before he can speak. “That’s the cruelest thing I could’ve told you. Trust me.”

She’s right. Eliot’s long since resigned himself to being Q’s second best. He never understood the same thing went for _Margo._

He stays on the sofa, his legs having turned into liquid, long after she leaves the room. The closet doors slam open and close. The shower starts running. There is spilt ash from the ashtray on the coffee table, and Eliot begins to draw circles with it.  

Margo’s cigarette stubs are all smudged with matte lipstick. He picks one up on a whim. His palm itches, and muscle memory nudges his fingers into a bizarre position—he’s seen it once, he thinks, in a dream. He doesn’t expect anything to happen.

Nothing does. The ashtray stays a rectangle of cheap metal. The cigarette stays a cigarette.

Eliot breathes out and reaches for one of his own stubs, scattering the ash with a sleeve. There are still a couple more drags left in it.

When Quentin steals back into the flat, he has the courtesy to use the door.

 

*

 

Eliot shows up late for one shift too many, and gets fired. His pride forces him to linger—as he trails his hand along the undusted counter, he’s sharply reminded of Jane Chatwin.

Who would she be without her magic world, stuck in a day-to-day bustle? Would she consider her life worth living?

The answer is as depressing as ever, and Eliot steps out into the wind-swept dark with a building sense of resignation inside.

“I should go back to Indiana,” he says to Quentin later in the evening; a fire escape creaks above them as they cut through an empty alley. “Before I finally drink myself to death. Crawl back to my family, tell them I met Jesus on a bus. They’d take me back in, I think, if I agreed to marry a sweet Christian girl.” He pats his pockets for a lighter. “Repent and renounce the vile ways of my youth.”

The flare of the lighter illuminates Quentin’s stunned face. Innocent souls like him are not meant for real world, Eliot muses, blowing out a puff of smoke. 

“You can’t— you can’t do that!”

“Why not? Lots of people do. There comes a point when you have to admit that life isn’t working out the way you wanted it to. Time to grow up.”

Quentin stops cold and grips him by the shoulders. “Eliot, listen to me. You are not chickening out and marrying a girl, ever. Not if I can help it.”

Eliot gives him a sharp look. “Easy for you to say, Q. You’re going to graduate out of your secret school, fit for any job you’d like. Me, though? I don’t have anything waiting for me in store.”

“You do.” Quentin keeps his eyes on his face. “You are magical.”

Eliot’s anger flares up; it lodges in his throat and doesn’t allow room for breath. “See? I don’t even have your romantic streak!” he grits out through clenched teeth. This is the moment. Eliot can feel it deep down in his bones. He’s stretched the limits of Quentin’s patience too thin—Quentin’s going to leave and stop wasting his precious bright future on someone like…

Quentin sticks his hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Do you want to go to Fillory with me?”

A stiff period of silence follows.

“You mean that as a euphemism, right?” Eliot asks in a whisper.

Quentin looks dead serious, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “There.” He thrusts something into Eliot’s hand. A silver flask. “Take the cap off.”

Eliot squints at it in the gloom. “I thought we were trying out the whole sobriety thing, darling.”

“Come on,” Quentin urges, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Open it, turn it over. As a leap of faith.”

So be it. Eliot flips the flask upside down with a lazy flick of the wrist. Whiskey splashes out on the pavement, sluggishly inching its way to a pothole.

It keeps pouring out.

It doesn’t stop.

Eliot bites down on his cigarette, his gaze glued to the pool of alcohol at his feet, slowly approaching the size of a decorative lake.

“How…”

Quentin gives him a shaky smile. “Magic.”

Eliot sweeps his eyes over the garbage-smelling alley, the harsh electric lights. Some of the whiskey has spilled onto his boots. “Quentin. I need you to answer me something. Are you from Fillory?”

Quentin lets out a nervous laugh. “No. Sorry.”

“You had a one-way-ticket out of the nerd club, and you still managed to blow it.” Eliot throws up his hands. “Unbelievable.”

“I sort of know how to get there, though.”

Quentin strikes a pose. He overdoes it just enough to make it obvious he practiced. “Eliot Waugh,” he says. “Would you like to become the High King of Fillory with me?”

He performs a convoluted gesture, and the skies thunder overhead. A shimmering portal splits open at the mouth of the alley. “This should get us to Brakebills, for a start. Margo’s already waiting.”

Eliot drops his cigarette. A split-second of hesitation and the rest of the pack follows suit. It’s not like there’d be tobacco in Fillory, anyway. He spares a glance for the flask, whiskey gushing out of it in a steady stream.  

“Shall we leave it here? Like a memorial. Sword-in-stone, if you prefer.”

“Keep it,” says Quentin. “It’s yours.”


End file.
